Moules Mariniere
by ypput
Summary: He froze, looking directly at the waiter for the first time. He didn't move, didn't even blink, just stared, his face slowly draining of colour because this guy... This guy he looked just like. "Sher...Sherlock?" John managed to wheeze after a long minute. One shot. Based on the S3 Teaser Trailer. Possible Spoilers.


**Moules Mariniere**

_He froze, looking directly at the waiter for the first time. He didn't move, didn't even blink, just stared, his face slowly draining of colour because this guy... This guy he looked just like. "Sher...Sherlock?" John managed to wheeze after a long minute. One shot. Based on the S3 Teaser Trailer. Possible Spoilers._

* * *

"Table for Watson," John said leaning forward so the Maitre'D could hear him over the general background chatter and clanking plates of the restaurant.

"Table for two," the Maitre'D confirmed lifting her eyes from the diary and gesturing that John should follow her as she strode promptly over to a small candle lit table at the back of the restaurant and pulled his chair out for him so he could sit down.

"Someone will be joining you?"

"Oh - Thank you," John replied as she proceeded to hand him a menu, "And yes - She'll be here in a minute." The Maitre'D nodded and laid another menu before the empty place then went on to rattled off the list of specials that all sounded lovely but unintelligible as to what they contained. He nodded as if he understood, which he didn't, and the Maitre'D took that as her cue to clip away on her heels, back to front desk.

John stared at the menu, his eyebrows creeping higher with every line he read - Apart from the prices, which if being charitable he would have described as exorbitant, it was the fact he had absolutely no clue what any of it was. _Moules marinieres_ stood out at him as a particularly good example of the problem he was having; it sounded like some sort of desert, maybe some sort of mousse? But then it was slap bang in the middle of the menu which logic dictated made it a main course.

He surreptitiously raised his eyes to sweep a quick glance round the restaurant, wondering if it was just him having this problem. It was. The lady at the table across from him was rattling off her order to the tall dark haired waiter with the sort of confidence he reserved for ordering bacon, egg and chips. No help there then. He cleared his throat quietly and flicked his eyes back to his own menu and went back to his hopeless attempts at deciphering it. The spidery faux calligraphy font might as well have been Ancient Greek - This place might be the toast of London with its Michelin stars and French cuisine but you'd think they would have subtitles or... Something.

He ran a finger round the inside of his collar, trying to gain a hair breadths more room from his constricting tie. It had been a long time since he'd last worn a shirt and tie, years even... Two years actually. Not since the funeral. Slowly and deliberately he lifted his fingers from his collar and smoothed them down his deep navy tie, a soothing motion that was the outward manifestation of his inward calming. Two years ago was two years ago, it was a long time ago now, he had moved on, he wasn't the same John Watson. For the last two years his life had been, well, dull. At no point had he chased a serial murder through the one way streets of Soho or been held a gun point by a consulting criminal. Dull, boring and ordinary; he liked it that way he reminded himself, if a little unconvincingly.

"Are you ready?" A voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"I'm actually waiting for someone," John said politely, not looking up from his menu but clocking from the corner of his eye it was the tall dark haired waiter he'd seen taking the neighbouring table's order. "What is _Moules marinieres_?" He then asked quietly after a beats pause deciding that it was probably best to ask these questions now, before Mary arrived, so he could sit and smugly tell her what everything was as if he'd known all along.

"Mussels with onions in a white marinade. Mary is going to be late. She missed her tube at Waterloo meaning she won't make her connection at Leister Square and will have to wait for the next train on the Northern Line which has been delayed due to a jumper at Camden Town."

John was confused now, did Mary ring ahead to the restaurant to let them know - Why not text him? "How do you kno-" He froze, looking directly at the waiter for the first time. He didn't move, didn't even blink, just stared, his face slowly draining of colour because this guy... This guy he looked just like. "Sher...Sherlock?" John managed to wheeze after a long minute. In a situation like this you'd expect his thoughts to be a whirlwind of competing emotions, joy, shock, anger... But he had none of that. Absolutely no thoughts what so ever crossed his mind he just went stiff, numb and blank staring uncomprehendingly at the apparition before him.

"Sound observation, John." Sherlock replied briskly his face showing his annoyance at John's continued inability to grasp the most basic of things.

"No, no, no." John murmured feeling like the room was spinning around him. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock died two years ago. John had seen him fall, the blood, his pulse. Now he was hallucinating, seeing his best friend, hearing his voice. Oh god, just _what_ was in those herbal soothers Mrs Hudson had given him earlier?

"John. John?" Sherlock's face loomed closer, a concerned frown on it now. "I appreciate this is all very sudden." Understatement. Then Sherlock's hands were on his shoulders, shaking him, his strong hands steadying him and all of a sudden it all became real. John blinked, his eyes focusing on Sherlock seeing him properly. The curly dark hair, the slate blue eyes, the constant superior expression. Sherlock was visibly thinner and paler than he had been but it still was. It really was. Sherlock Holmes.

"My God... Sherlock."

John really wasn't really sure when he stood up, or how he managed to knock the table over, he was even really sure where his balled fist came from, but the next thing he knew he had launched himself at Sherlock and punched him smack in the face. Sherlock, apparently as surprised as John himself was, made no attempt to duck, the blow caught him square on the nose and he flew backwards slamming into the table behind and scattering the various elegant knives, forks and wine glasses.

"YOU BASTARD!" John was yelling now and shaking with anger, his fists back at his side, nails digging painfully into his palms. Sherlock was alive. For the last two years he and everyone else had been convinced his best friend has committed suicide and that he'd seen him do it. He'd seen the blood, felt his wrist for a pulse and watched the coffin being lowered into the ground and now here he was... Sherlock Holmes in the flesh, stood in front of him bold as brass, quite clearly alive. Two years of misery, missing him, what ifs and now it turned out the bastard had been playing some sort of sick game of hide and seek with him and only pretending to be dead. Who does _that_? Who pretends to be dead?! Some small part of him was genuinely not surprised, another was thrilled, happy and giddy that his friend was miraculously returned to him, but then over it all the anger burner fiercer and colder. That bastard, the absolute bastard!

The restaurant was silent, not a single fork scrapped as every diner stared at the scene open mouthed. Sherlock turned back John, a steady trickle of blood running from his nose, one hand raised, suing for peace. "John, I told you it was all a tri-" Sherlock started trying to explain, clearly he had startled the normally placid John with his unnecessarily dramatic reappearance. John however was in no mood for explanations, he had two years of pent up emotions that were all about to be expressed in the form of violence. He roughly grabbed Sherlock by the shirtfront, hauling him back to his feet. Sherlock made no move to resist. He could easily have fought back and freed himself but he just hung limp, his steely blue eyes steady on John's, blood dripping down his chin and onto his white shirt front and John's hands.

John blinked at the red, the bright contrast against the white cotton and his taut knuckles. Blood. Sherlock's blood on his hands. His mind flashed back two years to the last time Sherlock's blood had been all over his hands on the cold pavement outside St Barts. He recoiled as if burnt, releasing Sherlock and took a stumbling step back, crushing a fallen champagne flute under his heel. What had he done? Oh god, he just punched his not-dead-best-friend in the face in a public place. His eyes roved around the room, seeing stunned faces gawping back at him from every table and one face in particular that stood out to him. She had clearly just arrived judging by the fact she still wore her coat. "Mary... I... I..." John stammered, but he didn't need any more explanation as Mary also stared at Sherlock, recognition dawning on her face. Sherlock Holmes. John's best friend, the one who had committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St Barts, the one who John had told her about, the one who John kept a picture of in his wallet alongside hers. The great detective, Sherlock Holmes, who had been called a fraud in all the papers. Sherlock Holmes who's work and memory John had always defended.

Sherlock Holmes who wasn't dead.


End file.
